Rocks In The Sand
by IsomorphicTARDIS
Summary: House AU: "I mean, it's not like they really knew him. On the other hand, connecting the dots of, 'he-takes-way-too-much-pain-medication,' and, 'your-boss-is-immortal,' was probably a long shot, anyway." Immortal House, Chameron, possible Huddy in later chapters. Rated for few curse words.


**Okay, I swear I didn't mean to. ****I ... kinda slipped into the House fandom overnight. Whoops!**

**So ... the only thing that has been running around in my mind is this - what if House was immortal? And no, not Captain Jack Harkness Immortal, but properly, originally, immortal. No one knows but House.**

**Starts somewhere in Season 1, though I'll probably put in more through seasons 2 and 3. **

**Here we go! Tell me what you think, R&R!**

Life sucks.

If there was one thing that House had learned in his extended life, it was that it sucked.

People worried – cared – about other people, and cared too much of the time, leading them to pain on both of their parts, and all it did was repeat until one of them was dead. And even after that, the others would just waste away, worrying about the dead and the alive and only themselves.

He needed his meds.

Usually, they were the only thing that kept out those pestering thoughts – not that he didn't agree with them, however. The meds kept him at a distance.

But, it wasn't like they did any good anymore. The only thing that did any good was high doses of Vicodin, and sometimes even that didn't help. Oh, well. Life sucks, as stated beforehand.

It wasn't like he had wanted to get involved with so many people, become so dependable on others. In all of his life, he had never wanted to become too attached. I mean, it's not like they really knew him.

On the other hand, connecting the dots of, 'he-takes-way-too-much-pain-medication,' and, 'your-boss-is-immortal,' was probably a long shot, anyway.

Anyway.

His blatant immortality wasn't the only reason he held himself from connecting with others, though. I mean, yeah, the whole 'I-don't-die' thing was important, but in all of his life, he had learned that if you care, you get hurt. Pushing people away is much easier. He hadn't had trouble with it for over a century.

And that was the other thing. Immortality is an okay excuse for many things. You didn't do your laundry? That's fine, you're immortal. You can do it later. You don't want to eat? That's alright, you can just have food in a week or so. Not like you're going to die of starvation. You just got shot in the head? Oh, you'll be fine. You won't die, or anything.

Not remembering your age is completely different. Yeah, you might not keep track of the last time you went to that diner down the street, but still. Age's kinda important. Trying to live with the embarrassment of not knowing your own age is a hard thing to live down. Especially if you've got co-workers who would make fun of your for it with every chance they got. Age _is_ important in the current society.

He guesses, sometimes, and goes from there. Another thing he's learned is that he can always tell when he's lying because he gets an itch in his left ear. He thinks he picked it up from a man somewhere around the Medieval Times, though, now that he thinks about it, seemed awfully out of place. He shrugs the thought off, whenever it comes. If he can be immortal, he wouldn't doubt that people could invent Time Travel.

Therefore, whenever he's been injured (but not fatally. Never fatally. Not now, and not ever.), he estimates.

"I'm 2000 years old," he tells the therapist after coming out of a coma. His ear starts to itch, as if there are bugs crawling all over it, and he knows he's overshot. So, he tugs at said ear, looks confused, as says, "I'm 1500 years old."

He knows again, that he's gone over the top, but his ear stops itching as much, and he feels a spike of triumph course through him. He'll try again next time, as the therapist is looking at him oddly, now. Next time.

Closer and closer.

Some days he gets that triumphant, golden feeling when he wakes up, trying to push it down into his leg to ease the pain that coagulates there. These are his good days.

Other days he wakes up without it, and has to solve a case to find it again, savoring the painless bliss it gives him at the end of a hard day's work. These are his well-used, normal days.

And, on occasion, he never feels that feeling. All he can feel is the weight of centuries pulling on him, dragging him down and down into a pit that has no ending, because despite however many times he's tried it, he can't die, he just keeps coming back, and no one can ever get rid of him, everyone is stuck with him, the nuisance that won't go away, like an annoying fly, and sometimes he wishes he could end it, just for their sakes –

Those are his bad days.

The Vicodin gives him a similar feeling to the average day. That way - unless he can feel it when he wakes up - he knows the day won't be bliss, but it won't be shit, either.

He has pondered all of this, in the morning before he wakes up, as he pushes past the crowd for his morning coffee, afternoon lunch, and late night snack. He thinks of all of this as he walks to work, apologizes for being late, or berates one of his co-workers for being late, themselves. Sometimes it's all he can think about as people shoot him glances behind his back, thinking he can't see him.

He notices the odd looks he gets from the nurses as they help his patients, the ones with which he has no idea what is wrong yet, and the ones he inspects a little too closely.

He realizes that he should feel worse as the younger doctors glare at him as he limps by – he just assumes it's because they're jealous, and smiles a bit when the pain softens a bit from his leg.

It's always the worst when he avoids everyone's gaze as they follow him, their unashamed stares caked with pity as he hobbles down the hallway.

He supposes that's why he came so close with his co-workers to become something akin to friends. They never gave him any odd glances, or pitying looks, though he got a surplus of glares from them. They were … different.

Hence the reason he was not going to fire any of them, no matter what circumstances. Yeah. Vogler could kiss his ass if he thought he was going to let one of them 'go'.

He lay in his bed at night, the covers twisted all around him as he thought, hoping to whatever kind of God was popularly prayed to that the reason was not that he wouldn't fire any of them because he wanted to tell them.

Or, even worse, that he cared about them.

In truth, he knew both were true, though he had wished it hadn't changed as abruptly as it had seemed to. It wasn't a week before that he had told them he cared about them, and felt a twinge of guilt as his ear began itching.

He scratched it, and let them think it was an action of discomfort from talking about his feelings.

A week later, he told them again, and actually stumbled a bit as the expected itch didn't come. They had asked him if he was okay, and he just looked at them, stared at these people whom he had come so close to even when he pushed them away, and rushed out.

They never talked about it afterwards, so he suspected that they had either dropped the subject because of the look on his face, or the way he fled the scene. For this, he was grateful, and showed it by secretly taking a bit of each of their clinic hours. He only told the clinic desk secretary and gave her 50$ to keep it a secret, so the only gossip would be between the lower staff sections.

And, though he knew it to be trivial and a complete waste of time on some days, he had their trust. They cared for him. And he cared for him. He had broken the one rule he had made centuries ago, but didn't really care at the moment. He had forgotten what it had felt like to be cared for, to care for someone else.

He preferred it, over the endless isolation that was sure to drive him mad, that he would get hurt. That they were all the sand on a beach, and they would get swept away by the tide, the only thing left of them being a memory within a battered rock weathered by the harsh rocks that dragged the sand crystals away.

He was the one who would outlive them all, as they all moved on.

He was the one constant in a moving mass of variables.

He was the one rock in a sea of sand.

And the tide was coming in.

**Just so you know, I do actually have a plot for this story. This is just what came out first. New chapter should be up soon.**

**Suggestions? Comments? Questions?  
**

**R&R!**

**~IsomorphicTARDIS**


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